


this is the way we wash our clothes

by scuttlesworth



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, bamf!Molly, the king is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scuttlesworth/pseuds/scuttlesworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly leaves no strings untied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is the way we wash our clothes

"Out!" she hisses, shoving the prepped bag into his arms. He's trying very hard to look awake and aware, but he just jumped off a building and he's shaking like a leaf with the adrenaline.

His hands fumble the bag. She stands on tip-toe and loops the strap over his head; he clutches it with his arms. Major muscles don't require such fine motor control. "Go, you have to be gone before they get here," she whispers, and he's nodding, then he winces. She purses her lips. "Paracetamol in the front pocket," she reminds him, not unsympathetically. He glares. She is unrepentant.

His movement is sudden. She doesn't expect it, and it shocks her, the feeling of his lips pressed hotly to her cheek, just by her lips. She stands mouth open, and when she comes back to herself, he's gone.

She's still standing there when John bursts in, Lestrade trailing behind.

***

"Survivor?" she says, faintly, thinking: Sherlock? No, we were so careful. No, so careful, no -

Lestrade's lips press into a thin line, grim. "Might be... Might be Moriarty. Have to get John up there, check, identify him. John and ... John's the only one, now, who can ID him. With the bomb, and all."

Molly's blood is ice in her veins. She can't help but wonder that Lestrade doesn't notice the skim of frost on her eyelashes, the blue of her lips. She needs to go, now, before she betrays herself. "Mmm," she murmurs, and takes a sip from her pint glass, grateful for the sudden cheer from some footballers at the pub rail. Lestrade glances over at them. She feels the weight of his attention leaving her, and lifts her wrist, glances blindly just long enough to confirm she's really wearing a watch.

"Oh, the time!" she cries, and if it's slightly too loud, this is a pub. "I haven't fed - " It's loud enough here. She grabs her things, waves, and leaves a bemused Lestrade staring after her as she slips out.

 ***

She stands beside his bed in the dark room and looks at the ruin of his face. His lips pressed against her cheek. He sat on her couch. He hands, a little clammy. She'd forgiven that. They'd watched Glee. He killed that old woman, and... and so much more.

She leans over, touches his face. He does not twitch, he does not flinch. She slips to the end of the bed, lifts his chart. Glances up at him as she reads it. Sedated. Not that she's confident that'll hold, but - the damage. Brain damage, at least. The physical shock of the bullet passing so close, through tissue - he expected to die.

She isn't sure, as she slips the needle from her pocket, that she's not doing him a favor after all. The insulin was in an elderly diabetes patient's purse last week. She's been meaning to chuck it in the disposal box, really she has. She wasn't going to keep it. Whatever would she keep it for, after all?

It flows into the tube, and her arms are numb. She tucks it all back into her pockets and presses the call button, slips out through the shared bathroom, into the next room. When she hears the nurse distract the guard she's gone - out into the hallway and away. Her back is to the guard - one more nurse on her rounds. Nothing interesting to see here at all.

She wipes her fingerprints off on the hem of her lab coat and drops the needle and vial into the sharps bin one floor up. Then she goes back down to the morgue and sits at her desk, and cries.


End file.
